


And To All A Good Night

by TheSignsOfTwo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21870508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSignsOfTwo/pseuds/TheSignsOfTwo
Summary: A collection of five shorts based on the 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge by missdaviswrites on Tumblr, using the prompts "Christmas present", "Winter", "Miracle", "Sentiment" and "And to all a good night".
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 34
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. Christmas Present

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of five shorts based on the 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge by missdaviswrites on Tumblr! One ficlet a day from the 20th through to the 24th. Each entry can theoretically be read as standalone, but they all take place in the days leading up to one Christmas in 221B, so they also function as one fic with five chapters.
> 
> Thank you so much to missdaviswrites for the initiative and the prompts, thank you all so much for reading and Merry Christmas!!

John’s fairly certain he’s seen more people in the last two hours than he has throughout the preceding 44 years of his life put together. It’s exactly like an action movie with poor visual effects, the people around him bearing a frightening similarity to digitally added extras, each poorly defined and completely indistinguishable from the one next to him until the entire mass of people in the background melts together in your brain and simply registers as “many”. John has been in at least fifteen stores by now and he’s about ready to swear off not only this painstaking shopping day, but the entire Christmas season along with it. Christmas is cancelled.

He’s got something for almost everyone on his list. Rosie has just recently begun to take an interest in picture books, so John and Sherlock had agreed to get her a big bunch of those, and John has just spent the better part of an hour scouring the Children’s section of Waterstones for the best ones. That part had actually been mildly festive as John had looked forward to going through them with Rosie on his lap. They’re also giving her a stuffed tiger (the only gift idea that Sherlock has contributed with this year, but predictably the best one). It has been on display in the window of the little second hand shop on the corner of Baker Street for the past two months and Rosie has been eagerly gesturing and giggling and exclaiming “tiger, tiger” at it every time they’ve taken her past it in her stroller. Sherlock says he’s been close to getting it for her on no less than five separate occasions just from the sheer longing on her face. It’s a bit on the pricey side even though it’s second hand, but what the hell. It’s Christmas.

Then there’s a stand mixer for Mrs. H (John hopes she doesn’t take it as a sly request for more baked goods – nothing could be further from his mind), a new anthology by one of her favourite authors for Molly (Sherlock had suggested they go with true crime, John had politely but firmly disagreed), two tickets for the upcoming football match for Greg to possibly share with him (John thinks this is a fantastic idea on his part, possibly his brightest this year) and, yeah, a gift card of 50 quid to a cultural event of her choice for Harriet, although John doubts she’ll get it used and only really got it because he had no idea what else to give, but still feels obliged to give her _something_ for Christmas even though he knows she won’t return the favour. And then there are Sherlock’s parents. John has spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to figure out a present for them, Sherlock having been no help at all. In the end, he’d decided to just go simple and get them a book each, picked out in Waterstones along with Rosie’s picture books and chosen based on John’s very limited knowledge about their interests and pastimes. He’s saved the receipt just in case.

He’d suggested they get a present for Mycroft, but Sherlock had been adamant that they don’t and had told John in no uncertain terms that he could not be moved on the issue.

Which leaves John with just one name on his list: Sherlock.

And Christ, John has no idea what to get him. Sherlock is an exceptionally difficult person to shop for because his tastes are so stupidly specific and impossible to figure out. John can’t get him books because Sherlock doesn’t read fiction and already owns a huge collection of non-fiction books on every topic under the sun, which means that John has absolutely no chance of figuring out which he might already own and which he might consider too simple and basic for him. John can’t get him any clothing items either, what with Sherlock’s ongoing accusation of him having bad taste and John having to admit that he hasn’t the faintest idea about the kinds of styles that Sherlock seems to follow with diligence (although that doesn’t stop him from noticing when Sherlock has gone the extra mile with his appearance, much to Sherlock’s delight; there are certain items of dress in Sherlock’s possession that does _things_ to John and John is under the distinct impression that Sherlock not only has full knowledge of this, but commonly uses it to his advantage). Anything edible is off the table given Sherlock’s notorious disregard for sustenance to his transport. John would have liked to give him an experience or holiday as a present – he saw an advert for an inn a couple of hours outside London that he’s been dying to take Sherlock to for a while now only this morning and almost booked a weekend for the two of them right away – but that sort of long-term planning rarely works out for them with both of them often called out on cases on very short notice and then there’s also Rosie to consider.

John sighs deeply and sags against a streetlamp. What do ordinary people give their partners for Christmas anyway? Well, all of the above: books, clothes, food, museum visits, romantic holiday getaways.

Maybe John can ask Mycroft for advice on a book that would live up to Sherlock’s standards. But that would lack the personal touch, wouldn’t it? Sherlock wouldn’t need to know that John had gone to Mycroft for help, of course, but the point still stands. At least John can’t let that be his only present for Sherlock this year, that’s for certain. He’ll have to figure something out to go along with a book, something a bit more personal.

_Think_.

What does Sherlock like? Something personal, something not a lot of people would know about him. Something he would be able to appreciate not just for what it is, but for the thought put into it. John tries to cast his mind back, to remember if Sherlock has expressed a particular liking for anything recently. A Mind Palace would have come in real handy at times like this.

And suddenly John knows. The book, the additional present, all of it.

He won’t need to consult with Mycroft after all.

-

Half an hour later, John is once again emerging from an overcrowded Waterstones onto an equally overcrowded street, holding up a bag in triumph (on second thought, he ought to have just put the new books with the ones he’s previously purchased – better for the environment, that).

In the bag are two books.

The first is a newly published re-assessment of all the evidence surrounding the Jack the Ripper murders. John had pointed out an advertisement for the book in a shop window a few weeks prior and Sherlock had seemed genuinely intrigued. Whenever the Ripper case is mentioned, Sherlock will always scoff and say that he could have solved the whole thing in an afternoon if only he had the necessary information. Perhaps the promise of new material has piqued his interest.

The second is another children’s book actually, one that John had taken a look at during his first excursion to Waterstones, but then decided against because it had seemed a bit too mature for Rosie. He’d gone with a story about a donkey instead. But this one is about pirates and Sherlock bloody loves pirates, it’s his biggest childhood fantasy. Good thing John’s gotten this one as well now. He can make it a joint present for both Sherlock and Rosie. John smiles just thinking about Sherlock looking through it with her, the way Sherlock’s eyes will sparkle as they always do when he’s talking of something that interests him and the way Rosie will babble and giggle hysterically whenever Sherlock arrives at the conclusion of a story.

Just one more thing to go then. John’s very pleased with his two purchases, but he needs something a bit more extravagant than a book to go along with them and he has a vague idea what he wants it to be.

He heads for the posher end of town. The sort of shopping area he only pays a visit when Sherlock drags him along, which has happened once or twice at most. John has absolutely no idea if Sherlock has a preference for any particular brand or shop. He’ll just have to wing it. So he heads into the first and best high end shop selling men’s suits and accessories, ignores the looks of some of the other customers (and some of the staff as well, if he’s being honest) and asks to see their collection of cufflinks.

Most of Sherlock’s shirts have buttons and Sherlock has expressed his dislike for cufflinks on more than one occasion. But John has a nagging suspicion that Sherlock’s dislike stems more from a desire to distance himself from the elaborate, over-serious and frankly ridiculously posh cufflinks preferred by Mycroft and his minions than from any dislike of the actual accessory itself. If John can just find the _right_ cufflinks, the _Sherlock_ cufflinks…

It might be a bit of a tall order. When John asks if they have anything a little more fun or eccentric, the member of staff currently showing him their assortment looks at him with such an exasperated expression that John almost feels bad for asking until he remembers that he is in fact a customer planning on making a purchase, at which point his temperament hardens considerably.

Then he sees them.

_Perfect_. Absolutely bloody brilliant, in fact, they couldn’t be better. Which one can so rarely say in real life.

A perfect little pair of cufflinks, each elegantly shaped like a small bee with the wings held down along the body. They’re not coloured, which is good too. John has the feeling that Sherlock would never wear a bright yellow cufflink, bee-shaped or otherwise. They’re just done in this exquisitely detailed gold that will look quite fetching beside Sherlock’s delicate violinist fingers, perhaps as an accent to John’s favourite shirt of his (Sherlock refers to it as dark aubergine – John just calls it purple), oh, they’d look positively incredible with that. John is admittedly getting rather ahead of himself, but can’t a man be allowed to indulge in a little self-congratulatory wishful thinking?

John purchases the pair, but decides against getting them gift-wrapped at the store. He knows that if Sherlock were to spot such a package, it’d only be a matter of time before he would figure out where it had been purchased and from there it’s a short way to him guessing at the contents. Which is one of Sherlock’s favourite pastimes around Christmas, the childish spoilsport. This time, John is determined to keep it a surprise.

He leaves the shop with a bright smile on his face. It's just begun to snow again.


	2. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second of this five-part short but sweet Christmas extravaganza, using the prompt "Winter". This one is from Sherlock's POV.
> 
> Again, thank you so much to missdaviswrites for the challenge and the prompts, thank you so much for reading and Merry Christmas to all!

“Is vite.”

“White.”

“Vite, vite!”

“It’s snow. At this temperature, the water in the atmosphere never gets above 0 °C, which is the melting temperature of water, so the precipitation that would normally fall as rain falls as snow instead. It’s basic physics.”

Rosie looks solemn for a moment, her small lips puckered in a grimace of concentration. Then she beams brightly at Sherlock and stretches her arms up towards the skies.

“Vite, vite!”

Sherlock resigns himself to the inevitable conclusion that he arrives at every second day on average – that Rosie, regrettably, is still a bit too young for his scientific explanations – and nods at her good-naturedly. “Yes, it’s white.”

The sad truth of it is, though, that Sherlock doesn’t have it in him to feel the least bit frustrated. Not where Rosie is concerned. Had it been any other two-year-old being escorted around in Hyde Park in her pushchair by a doting parent a couple of days before Christmas, exclaiming loudly about the snow without being able to pronounce her words the right way or string a sentence together in grammatically correct fashion, Sherlock would likely be more than a little annoyed. Quite possibly, he would be of the impression that the doting parent was fooling themselves into thinking that just _their_ child was that rare _objectively_ incredible being that everyone ought to be able to enjoy.

Now… well, now _he_ is that doting parent.

But then again, Rosie’s status as the single most marvellous child yet bestowed upon mankind is close to a scientific fact. Sherlock can't honestly say he doesn't feel 100% justified in his assertion of her superiority in comparison to the children of all the other doting parents.

Rosie is looking gleefully at the snow falling all around them, reaching her small hands up in an attempt to catch one of the snowflakes. She’s wearing mittens. Big, obnoxiously red and with only the thumb separated from the other fingers. Along with her equally big and obnoxiously red scarf and hat, she’s looking every bit a Christmas fairy come to life (John’s opinion – Sherlock will be the first to admit that she does look very sweet as she lowers her hand to her face to get a closer look at a snowflake and promptly melts it with her warm breath, but to actually say that she looks like a Christmas fairy is just a little too sickeningly joyous, ugly-Christmas-sweater-and-fake-antler-headband-y for his tastes).

The whole matching set of mittens, scarf and hat is actually a present from Sherlock’s mom and dad. As though their penchant for overspending on their children around Christmas wasn’t hateful enough as it was, now, with the arrival of what Sherlock’s mother can’t stop referring to with pride and joy as “their first grandchild” (not that there’s another on the horizon, as far as Sherlock can tell), they’ve really taken it to new heights with packages of advent presents for Rosie and batches of homemade Christmas cookies arriving in the mail before December had even properly begun.

But never mind. Rosie is delighted by the bright colours of her new ensemble and the cookies, John had assured him, had been more than passable.

And truth be told, Sherlock actually, surprisingly, has never really had a problem with Christmas. What he's always resented has been the enforced company of his family. Nowadays, with a family he's actually chosen for himself... well, he finds that he's even sort of almost enjoying the whole thing. Sure, the endless carolling and forced cheer everywhere is a pain to be subjected to and the amount of people mindlessly following this mixed bag of holiday traditions picked up over the past thousand years and stemming from everything from 9th century heathen beliefs to 1960’s marketing campaigns all squeezed awkwardly and uncomfortably together under the label of a ‘traditional Christmas’ frankly makes Sherlock lose an additional bit of faith in humanity… but when John is off from his work at the surgery, relaxing in his chair with a comforter and a cup of tea while Rosie is beaming up at them from the floor with her mouth stuffed full of Christmas cookies, it would be a blatant lie to claim that Sherlock did not enjoy it in the least or that he did not feel just a smidge of that fabled Christmas spirit.

So when Rosie halfway out of Hyde Park asks to “see the birds” before they head home (which Sherlock knows to mean that she wants him to take her past the Serpentine so she can look at the swans), Sherlock finds himself in exactly the sort of doting parental Christmassy mood he’s always loathed in others and his response is not far off the mark either: “Oh, alright then” as he turns around to head back the way they came.

But just because it’s Christmas and white out and they both have snowflakes in their hair.


	3. Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3, based on the prompt "Miracle"!
> 
> Once again, thank you so much to missdaviswrites on Tumblr for the challenge and the prompts and thank you all so, so much for reading!

_Finally_.

John struggles to remove his snow-soaked boots, deposits his shopping bags on the kitchen table, tosses his jacket in the general vicinity of the hook, misses by a mile, sighs deeply, goes to retrieve it, hangs it up to dry properly and finally, _finally_ collapses into his armchair, his limps sprawling out in every direction as he heaves a deep, satisfied sigh.

Christmas is just a couple of days away and being out and about in London is frankly a nightmare. Everywhere you look, there are people rushing by looking for presents or buying additional stuffing or talking loudly into their phones complaining of that family dinner they’re dreading or taking care of the other seventeen thousand preparations that need to be made before Christmas can arrive.

But now, as far as John is concerned, it’s all done. All the obligatory letters have been written and sent, all the decorations have been hung up (not that there’s that many of them – with the combination of Christmas ornaments and Sherlock’s experiments posing a constant fire hazard, they’ve found the balance through a painful process of trial and error), all the food has been purchased and what can be prepared in advance has been prepared in advance, all the presents have been bought and wrapped (well, alright, he ran out of wrapping paper last night with three presents left to go, but he’s picked up some more today, so wrapping those three is about all that he needs to do before he’ll be all set to go).

Now all John needs is a warm cuppa and a good book while he sits back and allows his feet to return to their proper size. Christ, he’s tired. He checks his phone, no incoming calls or texts, but it’s four o’clock and dark outside, so surely Sherlock and Rosie must be right on the stairs. Perhaps he’s taken her to Hyde Park again. They somehow always manage to lose all sense of time when they're there. John would find it immensely endearing if he currently had the energy. Instead he just sinks further down in his chair and closes his eyes, listening for the familiar slam of the front door signalling Sherlock and Rosie’s return.

It’s actually quite nice to have the flat to himself for once.

But tired though he may be, John can’t deny that it’s actually also quite nice when he hears the front door downstairs a couple of minutes later followed by some awkward shuffling as Sherlock collapses the stroller and stores it away in the entrance hall. Then there’s Sherlock’s unmistakable stepping pattern on the stairs and the next moment… 

“Oh, you’re home.”

Sherlock deposits Rosie on the floor to take off his coat and scarf before he steps inside properly, likely hoping to keep the melting snow from his outer layers off the floor. But Rosie evidently has other plans. She rises immediately, resolutely using the coffee table for leverage, and before Sherlock has a chance to stop her, she’s across the floor in the direction of John’s armchair, leaving a nice little trail of puddles in her wake.

“Daddy!” she exclaims gleefully, completely overriding the stiffness in John’s limbs and the slight discomfort of the icy cold meltwater dripping off her. John reaches down and lifts her up, placing her on his lap. His pants are immediately soaked. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on them, affectionately amused.

“There’s my sweet girl! Did you have a good day?”

She nods vigorously, icy drops flying in every direction. “We saw birds!” she declares happily.

John finds himself matching her bright, eager smile. He’s still bloody tired, but it’s tough to remember that when Rosie’s practically bouncing with glee on his lap.

“You did, did you? You went to the park?”

“We did.” Sherlock chuckles softly. “And round and round we went in there. We were halfway out on the street before Rosie remembered that she’d like to see the swans, so we had to go back. Which is how it ended up being dark before we got home.”

John chuckles as well. “Sounds like the two of you. For my part, I’ve done a vigorous round of Christmas shopping and I’m proud to announce that we’re now all set to go for this whole holiday hullabaloo.” John throws Sherlock a sly smirk. “Unless, of course, someone decides to target our Christmas confectionery ahead of time like last year.”

Sherlock throws on his most endearing expression, all big-eyed innocence and pushed out lower lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John grins up at him. “I’m sure you don’t.” Then he gets up, feeling considerably less worn-out than before Sherlock and Rosie’s return, and helps Rosie get her snowsuit, shoes, scarf, hat and mittens off. It’s almost as though he’s unwrapping her, revealing her brightly grinning person layer by layer.

It suddenly strikes John that this will be the first Christmas she’ll really get to experience. Last year, she could barely walk and said little more than “dada” for John and “sof” for Sherlock. Which means this year will also be their first real Christmas, the three of them together, a proper family.

Something warm and pleasant spreads through John’s stomach at the thought.

It’s not because they necessarily need to be “a proper family”. Hell, that battle was probably lost a long time ago and John doesn’t really mind. He’s lived with Sherlock on and off for more than half a decade by now and he’s learned the hard way that Sherlock and _the traditional_ are mutually exclusive. Incompatible at the best of times and downright adversarial most of the time. And John wouldn’t change a thing about that. Despite what he may have thought he needed once, now at last he knows with certainty that what he needs is Sherlock and Rosie and nothing and no one else.

That doesn't hinder just a smidge of traditionalism from sticking with John, though, a smidge of traditionalism that exalts at the prospect of a completely traditional family Christmas with decorations and presents and Christmas cookies and stuffing and carols and snow outside and Rosie in red and friends coming over to give them the compliments of the season.

It’s not because John is nostalgic about the Christmases of his childhood. They weren’t particularly Christmassy. On the contrary, his childhood Christmases were always rushed, cheap, depressing affairs, marked by arguments, awkward silences and one too many drinks to cope with it. Anything to avoid a repetition of those hellscapes.

Perhaps it’s a matter of sentimentality, John wishing to experience the kind of Christmas he couldn’t have growing up as well as give that sort of Christmas to his own daughter.

Perhaps it’s simply because, for as untraditional as John prefers his life to be and for as anti-traditional a partner as the one he’s chosen to commit himself to, when it comes to the concept of _family_ , John likes things to be traditional. He likes to do things the _right_ way. And Christmas is one such family thing he wants to do _right_ this year rather than experiment and end up with the depressing rush of his own past Christmases or the anti-festive avoidance of Sherlock’s.

And yes, Sherlock will be outraged at the amount of food he’ll be forced to consume and complain about all the energy his body will need to spend on digesting it when that energy could be spent so much better on his brain. He’ll sigh very audibly every time a carol can be heard over the telly or the radio or just from the street outside, just so that John can’t _possibly_ miss how hateful he's finding the whole ordeal and what a nightmare it all is for him to endure. But truth be told, John finds he doesn’t much care.

Because John doesn’t just want a traditional Christmas. He wants a family Christmas and he wants it to be with the family he’s chosen, with Rosie leaving puddles of melted snow all over the carpet in her rush to get to him and Sherlock complaining all the way through the whole ordeal just to disguise the fact that he maybe enjoys it a little bit after all. That John might actually have all that… it’s just too good to be true and yet, unbelievably, it seems as though it is.


	4. Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more to go, guys!
> 
> This is chapter/part four, based on the prompt "Sentiment"! Once again, thank you to missdaviswrites on Tumblr for the challenge and the prompts!
> 
> In Denmark, where I live, Christmas is traditionally celebrated on Christmas Eve (the 24th, in the evening), while the 23th is known as "Little Christmas Eve". The 25th is known as "First Christmas Day", but you don't really do anything special, you just stay at home with your family and eat good food. Presents are opened on the evening of the 24th.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, everyone!!

“Look! Look, look, look!”

Rosie is pointing out of the window for what feels like the thirtieth time this afternoon, apparently completely besotted by the way the snowflakes seem to suddenly appear at the top of the window only to subsequently disappear at the bottom. Her hot breath creates fog on the glass. Her arms are flailing excitedly.

“Yes, look at that! Oh, so lovely, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Hudson’s patience is unending. It’s actually quite nice to have her up here in their flat for Christmas Eve. She’s endlessly indulgent when it comes to Rosie, which takes some of the pressure from Sherlock’s shoulders while John is being creative in the kitchen. As far as Sherlock can understand, he’s trying to prepare a final batch of cookies while deciding on how much alcohol to put in the punch. He looks a tiny bit stressed, shoulders tense and hands flexing restlessly. Multitasking has never been his strong suit. Neither has cooking, though Sherlock will be the first to admit that, of the two of them, John is by far the better cook. Perhaps Sherlock shouldn’t leave it all in his hands when he so obviously can’t manage it, but they seem to have arrived at a sort of mutual silent agreement over the years that Sherlock is not of much help in a kitchen. Truth be told, he’s mostly just in the way. So Sherlock doubts that John would even want his help if he were to offer it. Instead it’s his job to look after Rosie, but Mrs. Hudson is mostly managing that by herself.

Which leaves Sherlock right where he is: in his armchair, looking between John in the kitchen and Mrs. Hudson and Rosie by the window and feeling unsure what to do with himself.

Maybe he should be counting down the hours until Christmas Day, properly committing himself to this whole festive ordeal, but that has struck him as a tedious and pointless exercise in futility ever since childhood and there are limits to his enthusiasm for the yearly round of Christmas phone calls, friendly well-wishes and uninspired presents.

Not that Sherlock isn’t enjoying himself in the least. All things considered, this is actually kind of… _nice_. Cosy and undemanding and, yes, perhaps a bit boring, but there hasn’t been a good murder in _weeks_ , so it’s not as though he’s got something better to do. This whole “traditional family Christmas” deal that John has been going on about (and Sherlock has been dreading from the moment he first brought it up)… well, Sherlock is actually finding it surprisingly unobjectionable so far.

He isn’t quite sure _why_ John wants a traditional family Christmas. John is not a very traditional man, no matter what he might try to project. Neither of them are. They solve crimes for a living. Sherlock needs something to use his brain on or it will begin to spiral wildly out of control, pushing him to resort to drugs to shut it down. John needs something that will provide him with a regular adrenaline kick or he will begin to grow restless and agitated, taking stupid risks in order to satisfy his need for danger and excitement. Where exactly _traditional family Christmas_ fit into their lives isn’t quite clear to Sherlock. But if it’s what John wants… well, Sherlock has decided to humour him.

It’s strange, that. Sherlock can’t recall any other person he’s met in his life that he’s had a desire to _humour_. There are no records anywhere in his Mind Palace (and the records he keeps there are extensive) of instances where Sherlock has agreed to participate in something he’d consider tedious or unnecessary without a fuss prior to John Watson. He’s never felt the need to indulge others just for the sake of indulging them, not until he met John.

But then, John Watson is not like any other person he’s met in his life. The impact that John has had on his life… Sherlock has a habit of thinking about important events in his life as happening _before John_ or _after John_. Almost as though John’s appearance in his life was an event comparable to the birth this whole holiday is built up around (the latter of which, by the way, is wrongly dated both when it comes to the year and likely also when it comes to the date, having been moved to the end of December in order to correspond with heathen solstice festivals in Northern Europe – how come no one cares about these things?)

“See snow! Snow! See snow!”

Sherlock’s line of thought is rudely interrupted by Rosie’s exuberant exclamations. Thirty-first time.

Oh, well. Sherlock is suddenly feeling rather indulgent.

“Yes, it’s snowing.” He gets up from his chair and sits down beside her at the window. “Do you see the snowflakes?”

She nods vigorously.

“Have you seen a hexagonal?”

There’s a snort from the kitchen.

“Two, Sherlock.”

It’s quickly developing into John’s standard shorthand for conveying to him that Rosie is unlikely to be able to understand what he’s saying to her.

Sherlock mentally scrolls through his past sentence to identify the offending part of it.

“Oh.” He quickly searches for a simple way to explain what a hexagon is, but comes up emptyhanded in the face of the fact that the most complicated geometry in Rosie’s current vocabulary is the triangles and squares of her block box, which she either way continues to refer to as “tree” and “flat”, respectively.

Rosie is looking at him expectantly, waiting patiently as so often before for Sherlock to ask her a question that makes any sense to her.

Sherlock briefly considers delivering a five-minute crash course in geometry, but one glance at Mrs. Hudson and that idea is quickly scrapped in favour of the easy route.

“Have you seen any pretty ones?”

Rosie’s face lights up in a bright smile of what she thinks is understanding.

“So pretty! All so pretty! Look, look! You think so too!” she says with all the certainty of one who feels so confident in her assessment that getting agreement from others is unnecessary.

Sherlock gives it to her anyway. “Yes, I think so too.”

He glances briefly towards the kitchen and, to his surprise, finds John looking back at him. He’s smiling. Smiling in that fond, relaxed manner of his that does something to Sherlock he can’t quite understand. It’s like suddenly being enveloped by a blanket, comforting and soothing. Warming him up on the inside.

Weirdly, Sherlock finds himself blushing. He doesn’t do that very often and certainly not like this, sitting fully dressed in the living room with Rosie in his lap and Mrs. Hudson on the couch. John notices, of course he does, and his smile deepens impossibly further before he has to return to the punch.

His hands are flexing.

Perhaps there’s something more on his mind than just the punch.

After everything they’ve both been through, to have all of this with John now – their home, their family, their child, each other – it’s a privilege that Sherlock isn’t quite sure he deserves, but one that he nevertheless feels infinitely blessed by. That John really, truly seems to have chosen Sherlock for his partner, trusted him with John’s heart, trusted him to raise John’s _daughter_ with him… Sherlock can only hope and pray that John will find his trust justified.

He thinks back to Mary’s words from a lifetime ago – “There is nothing in this world I would not do to stop that happening” – and finds himself in agreeance with the sentiment if not with the meaning.

He would never lie to John just to keep him. It would be unthinkable, perverse, absurd and, incredibly, it doesn’t seem to be necessary. Why John seems to want him just the way he is when the rest of the world are all but tripping over one another to tell him off at every opportunity remains a mystery to Sherlock, but if John considers him worthy of his affection, so help him, he will not let John down. He will be here, for as long as John wants him to be, and he will do everything in his power to prove himself worthy of the trust John is placing in him. To fail in that… that’s what Sherlock will not allow no matter what. What there is nothing in this world he would not do to prevent.

Of course, Sherlock can’t tell any of this to John. Words are not exactly his strongest suite and sentiment even less so. As he looks back out at John in the kitchen, watching him frantically moving from the table to the countertop with a half-empty bottle of champagne, he can’t even get himself to convey the general idea with simpler words. “I love you”, “You make me happy”, “I’m grateful to you” or even bloody “Merry Christmas” to signify that he does actually appreciate what John is trying to do here… all of those would at least go some way towards explaining how Sherlock feels. He just can’t. The ability to express these things is just not in him, neither in nature or in nurture. He might pride himself on his lack of sentiment most of the time, but sometimes his inability to properly express what he’s feeling is… not good.

But they just have to cope with that. As they cope with a million other things. It is what it is. And what it is a beautiful thing that Sherlock can barely comprehend with his brain. But he feels it fully and wholly with his heart.


	5. And to all a good night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifth and final chapter! Thank you all so much for reading! This chapter can, again, be read as standalone, but is meant as a sort of completion to this five-part mini-series.
> 
> The prompt for this chapter is "And to all a good night". The prompts have come from the 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge, posted by missdaviswrites on Tumblr! Thank you so much for the challenge and the prompts!
> 
> Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa or just a joyful time of year whatever you do or do not celebrate to everyone! I hope you have a wonderful time and wish you all the best for the New Year!

It’s surprisingly quiet.

After more than a week of hectic last-minute Christmas shopping, sending off presents left and right, preparing for Christmas dinner and decorating 221B from top to bottom (well, not exactly from top to bottom, more like around all the fire hazards that Sherlock refuses to get rid of), with a couple of hours left until the 25th, Rosie is now asleep in her room upstairs and Mrs. Hudson is safely returned to 221A. It really is surprisingly quiet. No carollers at the door, no loud sounds emanating from obnoxious celebrations at the local pub, not even cars on the street. London has gone into pre-Christmas hibernation.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair. John can see him from his position at the kitchen counter. He’s looking into the fire, seemingly deep in thought. The orange glow reflects on his face.

It’s so quiet.

John has a little alcohol in the blood from the punch they’ve just consumed together with Mrs. H, but he’s had nowhere near the amount necessary for it to have any effect on him. He briefly congratulates himself on that account. Liquid courage is a tried and true though not particularly responsible preparatory measure for John whenever he wants to _talk_.

It’s as if Sherlock already knows. The way he’s sitting there by the fire, staring into the flames. He has such an unreadable expression. As though he’s looking at things far beyond the scope of what everyone else can see.

John can’t say he’d be particularly surprised if that turned out to be true.

John pours himself the last few drops of punch. It’s thin, watered down and low in alcohol, but it’s better than nothing.

When exactly did he decide that tonight would be the right time to have a _talk_? It’s _Christmas Eve_. It’s been stressful, they’re both tired and they need to go to bed early so they can have some energy for tomorrow. This is not a good idea. Last minute decisions rarely are. But Sherlock has clearly noticed that John is preparing himself for something. He’ll probably be confused if John doesn't deliver. Maybe he’ll think something is amiss. Besides, it would feel like a complete cop-out if John was to back down now. It’s not even that significant of a thing he wants to say. He’s just being a coward.

John decides to soldier on.

He enters the living room and sits down in his chair opposite Sherlock’s, glass of punch balancing precariously on the armrest.

“So.”

To John’s surprise, it’s Sherlock who makes the opening move. He must have noticed how uncomfortable John is starting these conversations. John would be warmed by the gesture if he wasn’t so uncomfortable starting this conversation.

“So…” he repeats. _Good, Watson, very good. **So**. Excellent conversation opener_. “There was something I wanted to talk about.”

“So I gather.”

Sherlock isn’t being sarcastic or degrading. He’s listening. He even takes his eyes off the fireplace to look at John instead.

“Look, I haven’t really… planned this out or anything. I didn’t know I was going to do this until this afternoon. It’s all quite spur of the moment. So I’m just going to… well, I’m just going to wing it, I suppose…”

John glances at Sherlock. Sherlock nods encouragingly and looks back at him. He’s being unusually patient and understanding tonight. Perhaps it’s because it’s Christmas.

John decides to just get it over with. Procrastinating like this is just dragging everything out unnecessarily, making this feel ten times more awkward than it has to.

“I just wanted you to know,” he begins, intent on being clear and concise. That intention goes straight out the window the second John runs out of words. His courage goes along with it. “I just wanted to tell you…” Damn it all, why can’t he just _say_ it? Why do they have to be like this, the two of them? Why can’t they just say what they feel and be done with it? Why must it always be like this, everything coming out so slowly and awkwardly that it’s an embarrassment to think of, half of it said in metaphors and innuendos, the other half of it being left unsaid?

Sherlock is still looking at him, all quiet attention. He deserves to hear this.

John takes a deep breath. “Look, I find it difficult. I find it difficult, this sort of stuff. You know that. But I just want you to know that I get it. What you’re doing.” Sherlock suddenly looks slightly terrified, like a little child caught with his hand halfway down the sweets jar. John scrambles to explain (and briefly wonder what exactly Sherlock has done that he knows John will not approve of when he finds out).

“This Christmas. I know it’s not something you, you know… something you really do. I know you’re making an effort and I know it’s for Rosie’s and my sake. I see it.”

Sherlock smiles a little softly. He looks so innocently pure when he smiles like that, no edge of sarcastic or mirth. _Like an angel_ , John thinks, even though he knows that to be a highly subjective opinion. Feeling himself moving perilously close to sentimentality, John quickly tries to redirect the atmosphere.

“I mean, you’ve even worn the antlers on a couple of occasions.”

Sherlock scoffs.

John smirks.

Crisis averted.

But no. John can do better. He isn’t done with what he wants to say yet. And Sherlock deserves to know.

John looks down. For some reason, it’s easier to say things that matter if he’s not looking into Sherlock’s eyes. Illogical human nature. He’s getting better at noticing it when it crops up, but he’ll probably never be able to tamp it down like Sherlock does.

“Listen… I know it’s not just about Christmas. I know it’s about… it’s about all of it. I mean… you never wanted to be a parent. You just sort of started to help me out and suddenly it was just… the way it was. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am for that, Sherlock, and I couldn’t do this without you, I really couldn’t, so don’t get me wrong, but… it was never really your dream, was it? Hell, when I met you… and for quite some time after that, actually… well, it didn’t even seem as though friends was something you were really… interested in. Never mind having a partner and a child.”

He hazards a glance up at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock is looking straight back at him, but there’s no reading his expression.

“What’s all this about, John?”

If only he knew.

John sighs despairingly. “I’m not sure, to be honest. It’s about… about telling you that I know, I guess. And saying thank you.” John hesitates. He isn’t sure he wants to say the rest of what he’s thinking. “And I suppose, in a way, it’s about telling you that… that I’m just so very grateful for everything that we have and everything that you give, but if it’s not… if it’s not what you want… I mean, I don't want you to have to _put up_ with me and Rosie, I want..."

“Let me stop you there, John.”

Sherlock’s eyes are cold when John looks up in surprise, matching his tone of voice.

“Let me stop you there,” he repeats. “Because you’re not making any sense. Your gratitude, I’ll take that if it makes you feel better. But everything else… You’re right. Having a child and being in a relationship have never been something I’ve aspired to. For the longest time, I’d sworn off relationships entirely. I was sure I’d never have a child until _after_ I’d already taken care of Rosie for months. And so what? Do you think I’ve achieved any of the goals I aspired to when I was five? You live and you learn. I didn’t have enough data on the subjects of relationships and parenthood to develop an informed opinion before you and Rosie. Now I do. And my informed opinion is that this is the life I want. I’m… happy. For lack of a better word. Not all day, of course, and not every day. But I’ve chosen this for myself. Don’t you dare imagine that you’ve pushed something down over my head that I’ve not agreed to. I’ve chosen this. I don’t regret it and I don’t think I ever will. Not for one second.”

It’s the most words, the most precise words, the most _direct_ words that Sherlock has ever spoken on the subject in the entirety of John’s experience with him. It takes John’s breath away.

It’s not a proposal. John doesn’t want to chalk this up to anything as ordinary, as stereotypical, as _normal_ as a marriage. There’s nothing ordinary or stereotypical or normal about them. John has no intention of trying to force something like that onto Sherlock. Put a label on him in that way. On _them_. Yes, perhaps there is still a part of John that would like to be married. He has a daughter, he’s raising her with a partner, he should marry said partner, it’s what people _do_. But it’s not what _they_ do. And it shouldn’t have to be.

John doesn’t know what to say. He can’t find any words that feel worthy of this occasion. _Monumental_. Monumental is what this occasion calls for, but John doesn’t have any words monumental enough.

“I love you.”

It’s not good enough, but it’s all John can think to say. And it’s true.

Sherlock smiles, but doesn’t say anything in response. It’s rare for him to proclaim his love like that and John doesn’t expect him to. What Sherlock has just said… the words “I love you” were clearer between the lines than they ever could be if simply said out loud.

John is up from his chair the second after, pulling Sherlock to him and kissing him deeply. Sherlock responds eagerly, passionately, wrapping his arms around John as well and tilting his head just so to deepen the kiss even further.

Holding Sherlock like this, feeling Sherlock’s arms around him, feeling his lips against his own… it’s like feeling the sun on both sides.

And there they stand, pressed against one another in front of the fire, embracing and kissing each other with fervour and devotion as the snow falls outside and the minutes tick by towards midnight and Christmas Morning.


End file.
